


I Am Here to Serve My Muse

by PassingShadow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Getting to Know Each Other, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Murder, Murder is Art, Muses, artist!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PassingShadow/pseuds/PassingShadow
Summary: Will gestures towards the figure, “That is someone who roams the streets in the perfect camouflage. We only see glimpses into his world when he allows it. We only see what he displays, his creative design if you will.”“May I ask whom it is that inspires you so?”“The Chesapeake Ripper.”The admission settles in the air with a heavy breath. Everything stops.In which Artist!Will is inspired by the Chesapeake Ripper, and Hannibal is intrigued in turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I did after reading a prompt...I was hesitating over posting this because I wanted to get more of the story written first, but I think this might push me to get writing.
> 
> In terms of warnings - I will post before each chapter if there is anything, but overall there are very mild descriptions of the crime scenes and cannibalism

Will runs a finger along the worn-out collar of his shirt. It’s one of the few he has that aren’t terribly itchy.

He hates these events. Hates having to watch a group of rich grown men and women mill about the room, overly dressed and obtusely ignorant. The only thing they knew about Will’s art was its auction value.

A group drift past Will, more focused on the row of paintings lined up against the gallery wall. Will’s agent, as expected, encourages them to aww-and-ahh at the work. Encourages them to share their interpretations of his designs, it’s something his agent does to make buyers feel more connected to pieces; or more comfortable about the blood and decapitation in them.

Will slinks back to the other side of the room.

He stops by latest piece, a sculpture of a human; yet not entirely. Will had worked on the sculpture for over a year, relentlessly reworking elements over and over again.

It is a faceless figure that has cracks along its surface, revealing a dark texture underneath. It stands at a formidable height and its nails are sharp and thick, not at all human like; the body is different and more ominous. There’s a small crack that runs through its forehead, and unlike the rest of the body, what lies underneath is a shadow of deep red with a slither of black bleeding through.

“A very interesting piece.” Comes a soft voice from behind Will.

Will jerks and barely avoids dropping his wine glass. He looks back to see a man dressed in a dark patterned suit. The man looks a few years older than Will, with a few lines creased around his eyes and lips. He holds a glass of dark wine in one hand while the other is in his trouser pocket. He is looking at the sculpture intently.

“Here we have a man breaking free of the image of what society has placed upon him, destined to be his own being,” The man muses, “An image of freedom.”

“The opposite actually.”

Because that’s what happens when Will’s agent isn’t there to censor him.  

The man turns his stare to Will, and Will quickly looks down into his glass.

“Secrets. It’s something hiding beneath the visage of man, something we will never see in its entirely.”

“Hmm,” The man glances back as though to examine the figure with this new information, “A person-suit.”

Will nods.

“And what do you think the person-suit is hiding?” The man asks.

Will rubs at his collar again, “Something beyond our comprehension.”

Will feels the man’s gaze on his skin, watching and observing him. He shifts uncomfortably, not willing to meet the man’s eyes. 

“Will!”

He turns to see Alana walking towards him. She’s smiling as she reaches forward to give him a quick hug; his traitorous heart tugs at contact.

“Thanks for coming, Alana.”

“You know I wouldn’t miss this, Will,” She brushes his arm, “I’m so happy for you. This exhibition looks amazing.”

“You’re just saying that, we both know your love for art history.”

“Maybe,” Alana admits, “But Hannibal does all the art enlightening for me.”

Will freezes; instinct has him look over to the other man.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” He holds out his hand for Will with a gracious smile.

He shakes it with a quiet, “Will Graham.”

“Hannibal was my mentor at John Hopkins,” Alana explains, “I was telling him about your work and tonight’s show, and he wanted to come to have a look. Hannibal is a big art enthusiast.”

“I must admit, I was not sure what to expect when Alana invited me tonight. Though, I am infinitely pleased having seen it myself.”

Will looks between the two, a little helpless under such compliments, “I get that a lot. Aesthetic murder, apparently, is very high-demand.”

“Don’t let Barney hear you say that,” Alana laughs.

Barney, Will’s agent, threw a fit the first time Will had mentioned the word murder in front of a journalist. Had spent hours explaining why the art world wasn’t ready for the full force of Will’s inspiration. _Ease them into your work. Start with your visuals and make them excited about what they see. Talk about human nature! The unforgiving consequence of suppressed urges, but maybe don’t mention serial killers off the bat._

Will thought it was all a waste of time but he also didn’t want his name plastered across some tabloid again; claiming his sordid psyche was the tell-tale sign of a psychopath.

“Ah, so what was the main inspiration behind your paintings?” Hannibal asks, “I notice that several of them display a side of human nature that most would be uncomfortable with”

“Will thrives in the uncomfortable.”

Will laughs at Alana’s comment. She’s the only one who’s able to handle him, _quirks_ and all. Before he can say anything else, a phone rings.

Alana reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She winces at the name, “Sorry. It’s work, I can’t ignore this.”

“I hope Jack appreciates your dedication to your work.” Hannibal comments. “You’ve been running ragged on these investigations.”

She shoots him a look before answering the call and moving away for a little privacy.

“You work for the FBI, Dr. Lecter?”

“Oh no, I’m merely a consultant. Alana’s colleague is a mutual acquaintance, and I offer my help when I can.” Hannibal smiles, “And please, call me Hannibal. No need for such formality. I hear that from my patients all day long.”

Will gives him a look, “No offense, but I don’t think we’re friends.”

“Ah, so you’d like to be my patient?”

Will allows himself to crack a smile; so, Hannibal has a sense of humour.

“I think it’s safe to say art is my therapist, but thanks for the offer.”

“Hmm,” Hannibal looks back to the sculpture beside them, his eyes trailing every detail, “I wonder then, with your comments on aesthetical murder and the reoccurring theme of human mortality in your paintings… That perhaps your therapy is in response to real-life events, or individuals.”

Un- _believable_. Will glances over to the row of images against the wall. His eyes fall on that shows a blindfolded man in judges’ robes, both arms stretching out, holding scales, his hands dripping in blood, and a human heart lies in one scale and a human brain in another. The other paintings all depict similar scenes of intricate violence, each disturbing in its own way.

“I swear to God,” Will rolls his eyes, “ _Psychologists._ ”

“I apologise, Will. I can’t turn it off any more than you can, but I mean no disrespect. I think your work is refreshing honest. Most people have a fascination with deviants, it would explain why there are endless documentaries exploring the minds of those they fear as evil. This seems no different, if anything I think it bears a far more rewarding result.”

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal looks back unfazed; a relaxed demeanour and exuding a sense of sincerity that Will rarely encounters at these events. At most, there’ve been words of admiration of his work being so _different_ but they quickly turn into comparisons to other faddish artists. But something tells him that Hannibal isn’t one to sugar-coat his feelings.

Will takes a sip of his wine and turns back to his sculpture. “It might be more accurate to say this is all a response to an individual… singular, than any group.”

Hannibal steps beside him—a perfect mirror of his posture.

Will gestures towards the figure, “That is someone who roams the streets in the perfect camouflage, we only see glimpses into his world when he allows it. We only see what he displays, his creative _design_ if you will.”

“May I ask whom it is that inspires you so?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper.”

The admission settles in the air with a heavy breath. Everything stops.

Curious, Will glances over to Hannibal. The man seems frozen, holding himself perfectly still as though any movement would shatter his control. Will’s not sure what he expected, maybe a little surprise—no disgust, not from Hannibal, perhaps a little startlement but definitely not the silence. He turns to Will.

“Is that so?” Hannibal murmurs.

Will for the first time that night notices how dark Hannibal’s eyes are. If you focused hard enough, they have red hues bleeding into brown.

“ _Will!_ ”

The moment shatters and the world stumbles back into focus. Will blinks and looks back at Barney who’s waving at him to come join a group. Probably to come meet some potential buyers.

Hannibal doesn’t say a word, just watches Will walk away.

In fact, he doesn’t seem to speak to Will for the rest of the evening. Even when Alana comes back from her call, they seem to drift through the exhibit. Barney pulls Will along, making him talk about his work to one group after another and discussing future projects to pique their interest. Alana and Hannibal come to say goodbye and congratulate him again but Hannibal seems rather quiet.

The event ends on a rather normal note. When Will gets home, Barney sends him a quick emailing outlining the number of pieces sold and the names of those who took part in the auction. He scrolls through the list a little aimlessly but stops when he notices the number listed next to sculpture. The figure looks obscene and just _wrong_. It’s too high.

His eyes slide across to the name listed next to the figure. It’s none other than a Dr. Hannibal Lecter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of that!
> 
> Also, you can find me on [tumblr](http://sidelleshadow.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why, far more important. I think it is beautiful that, where most people see horror, you see art in its purest form.” Hannibal inclines his head, “And I’m afraid I am a man who does not deprive himself of beautiful things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally managed to get this chapter finished! I know it's been a while but thank you for being patient <3
> 
> Minor trigger warnings - Description of crime scene/murder scene and cannibalism

“That’ll be $4.48.”

Will digs though his pocket and pulls out the change. He stuffs the receipt into his pocket as he shuffles to the side. Once his coffee is ready, Will grabs it and heads outside.

It’s getting a little colder, as the crisp autumn winds are settling in. Will sips his coffee as he takes a seat on a bench a little way off from the shops.

He watches the crowd with no real purpose; people shuffling from one store to another. Caught in their conversations are a group of teenagers, hands full of snacks, laughing as they run across the street.

It’s helpful to Will. To watch the world and take it in without diving too deep. Not getting lost in people’s mind and emotions, or trudging through their overwhelming feelings.

“Will?”

He jerks. The coffee shoots straight down his throat, burning as it goes down.

Hannibal is standing in front of him, dressed in an impeccable blue suit; fitted as per usual fitted to his lean form. He is holding two bags, filled with what looks like fresh veg and some fish.

Will recovers his composure, “Dr. Lecter.”

“Please, Will. I do remember requesting you call me Hannibal.”

“Ah, sorry… Hannibal,” Will only says it because he’s still running on the shock. He continues a little helplessly, “What are you doing here?”

Hannibal gestures to the bag in his right hand, “I was just picking up some Matsutake mushrooms. I have finally found a supplier who has them sourced specifically from a Japanese red pine forest. When cooked properly, they release an exquisite aroma and texture to several dishes.”

“I’ve never tried them.” Will then takes another sip of his coffee, waiting - almost naively for Hannibal to walk away.

“I hope I haven’t caught you in the middle of anything.”

He shrugs, “I was in the middle of getting some fresh air. I was getting restless in the studio.”

“No new ideas.”

“You could say that,” Will looks down at his fingers – notices the lack of charcoal staining his fingertips, “I guess I’m feeling a little stagnant.”

“A lack of inspiration, it seems.” Hannibal doesn’t move, at least doesn’t appear to move, but Will notices the shift in his expression. The careful consideration. “It has been… rather quiet as of late.”

 _Shit_. He just always has to open his goddamn mouth. Will’s panic has him looking at the dirt of his shoes, to the woman in line at the pretzel cart, to the coffee in his hands.

Anywhere but Hannibal’s eyes.

“Would…” He takes a breath, “Would it reassure you if I said I don’t want people hurt. I didn’t mean I was actively waiting for –”

“Please Will,” Hannibal inclines his head, “I do not need reassurances. I harbour no fears or misguided apprehension over your admission. In fact, I feel privileged to be have been allowed to know the truth behind your inspiration.”

It’s the shock that has Will looking up at Hannibal.

“You seem surprised.” A small rueful smile, “Ah, perhaps it is not I who requires reassurance.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“But I do…. You are hardly the first artist to explore death in all its truth and beauty. Death has been the muse for many a lonely soul. Are Théodore Géricault’s _Anatomical Pieces_ not hailed a masterpiece? Was his work not said to have shaped the development of Romantic art. The very essence of his series was the confrontation of death.” 

“I guess I didn’t really think of it that way. I just –” He runs his thumb over the coffee lid. “It’s not exactly the most savoury thought. To be considered an admirer of a killer.”

“Perhaps you have yet to find someone who has the appetite for it.” Hannibal shares a quiet smile, “I would like to invite you to dinner at my home. We can share our unsavoury admissions over proper sustenance.”

Will had heard all about the dinner parties Hannibal hosted from Alana. The lavish invites, the rounds of food served by hired staff, and the scores of people all vying for the singular honour of Hannibal’s attention.

“I’m sorry, but that not be… it’s just socialising is a bit –” He takes a steady breath, “I’m not very good in social situations.”

“I find myself requesting only yourself presence.”

And there it was. No matter how much of himself Hannibal had hidden away in social etiquette and politeness, that was the truth.

Will allows himself to smile. “Dinner sounds great.”

“Excellent.”

**____________________________________**

The days pass quickly after that and Will finds himself occupied with Barney over his next set of exhibitions. It’s a boring blend of endless paperwork and pointless red tape.

He gets home after a meeting that drags on for hours. He gets the dogs their dinner, making sure Buster has taken his medicine, and lets them out for one last time before bed. After locking the doors, Will is settling on the couch with his beer when his laptop rings.

With the notification sound he’d set as an alert for a specific website.

His heart picks up at the sound of it.

Will pulls up the page and lets it load. The red letters splattered across Tattlecrime’s front page. _The Ripper’s Latest Sacrifice: Prey for our safety?_

The pictures of the crime scene are up close and personal, well past the point of police tape. It’s a wonder Lounds hasn’t been arrested yet.

The images show a man kneeling on the floor with his legs pressed together. He’s middle-aged with mousey brown hair, and his body long discoloured from the time of death. His has his hands raised to the sky, _reaching for benediction_ , eyes pinned in place to look upwards – _look only to me. See me._

Placed in the man’s hands is his own heat – his chest pulled apart and gaping. The ribcage is pried apart and his lungs missing, _there’s no use in breathing – for you take my breath away in your glory. In return I want your heart, your love._ Flowers are planted in his chest cavity filling in the spaces – overflowing in their numbers.

A single rose is in the man’s mouth, a gag for his woes. _For we speak the language of truth. And that is all I want._

It is precise. Artful. Perfection at its core. This is the Ripper’s design.

A minute goes by. Then another.

Will sits there for a long time.

When he finally moves, it’s not to his bed. He reaches for his sketchbook, fingers grabbing his worn-out stub of charcoal.

Will doesn’t get much sleep that night. 

**____________________________________**

Hannibal _has_ to live in the most expensive part of town. Will walks through the street with an increasing level of self-awareness.

He takes a moment at the front door before reaching for the bell. It barely takes two minutes before the door swings open to reveal Hannibal. Dressed in muted maroon and blue.

“Ah Will, welcome. Please come in.” Hannibal steps aside.

Will thrusts the bottle of Champaign at Hannibal, which is graciously taken with a pleased murmur of _ah a bottle of 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande dame_ , but Hannibal’s attention returns to him.

Will is helped with his jacket, fingers brushing against his shoulders and neck. He finds that he doesn’t mind it at all.

He’s led to the dining room. The lights are dimmed but there are candles lit and placed throughout the room. The table has an array of centrepieces, a range of flowers with different hues of red and white, delicate crystals, and pheasant feathers – not what he’d expect at a dinner table, but it suits Hannibal strangely.

“I believe that during a meal, the food must stimulate our eyes just as our taste buds,” Hannibal says as he walks in with their appetisers.

He sets the bowls in front of Will, which is a soup. “Silkie chicken in a broth made from wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, star anise and -”

“Matsutake mushrooms.”

Hannibal smiles and takes a seat.

It takes only the first bite for the burst of rich flavour. Will can’t help but close his eyes and enjoy the taste. When he opens them, he sees Hannibal watching him, looking pleased.

“It’s delicious. Far better than my cooking.”

“Thank you, Will. I’m glad to share my food with you.”

It’s not long before they move on to the main course, purple artichokes served with spring lamb’s lungs and heart. It’s better than anything Will’s ever eaten before. It’s so good, he doesn’t even mind the line of conversation Hannibal draws him towards; his artwork.

“What drew you to your first foray into the themes of mortality?”

Will cuts another piece of lamb heart, “I failed a psyche evaluation.”

He enjoys the moment of Hannibal’s surprise.

“I see.”

Will waits a beat for the follow-up question and smiles when none is forthcoming. Just easy acceptance.

“I applied for a forensics programme at Quantico.” He shrugs, “I didn’t get very far. The consulting psychiatrist who was reviewing my application thought I had too much empathy. My particular brand of thinking would be harmful in the long run. He suggested… a more creative outlet.”

Hannibal watches him, “It was a difficult decision for you.”

“I think like serial killers. I _become_ them in my mind and I see the horrific things they do and see their art. And the one place I thought would want me to help tells me I’m so fucked up that they don’t want me working with them.”

“If this is the result of that decision, then I must confess I am rather pleased with your venture into a creative outlet. I would not be deprived of your vision, nor of your contribution to the art movement.”

“As important a contribution as Théodore Géricault?”

“Why, far more important. I think it is beautiful that, where most people see horror, you see art in its purest form.” Hannibal inclines his head, “And I’m afraid I am a man who does not deprive himself of beautiful things.”

Will stares at his food as he feels his skin heat with a flush he knows has spread across face. 

He hopes it doesn’t stay throughout the rest of dinner, even if the conversation moves on. The rest of the meal is equally delicious, and Will has no qualms about letting Hannibal know.

Afterwards, Hannibal guides him to a small, private lounge. It’s an impressive room, both in its design of muted maroons and timbered walls, but also with the array of belongings. Will can tell they hold a level of importance. To be displayed in the depths of Hannibal’s home, where few have been invited to. He looks at the varied array of paintings, the distinct frame of a rare butterfly, and the instrument tucked away in the alcove corner of the room.

He takes a few steps closer to admire the beautiful instrument, smooth curves and polished keys. But his eyes are drawn to the sculpture placed in the alcove between the harpsichord and the heavy set of velvet curtains. It is perfectly in place. Hidden from view from anyone were to first walk into the room, but once Hannibal is seated by his instrument, it is the only thing you would see. A captive audience.

“It is a beautiful piece,” Hannibal says from behind him.

“Thank you,” he shrugs, “I’m glad you’ve brought it into your… collection, even after learning about its full truth. Although you paid too much for it.”

“Nonsense. I paid its full worth. Few can claim a glimpse into the Ripper. From what Alana tells me, he is a difficult man to catch.”

Hannibal takes a seat in an armchair, a glass of red wine in hand.

“He’s a disciplined sociopath. More capable than us, more controlled and far more intelligent. He has everybody running in circles because he finds it amusing.”

As he speaks, Will is drawn to the sculpture again. Moving towards it and perching himself at the harpsichord seat with his glass of whiskey.

“You seem to have a formed a rather insightful profile of the Ripper.”

“I thought I did. Now, I’m not so...” He pauses, not sure if he should finish his sentence. He looks over at Hannibal - whose posture is attentive and relaxed, probably the same one used on patients. It calms Will’s nerves a little. And this has been a night of honest admissions. “The Ripper is someone who sees themselves as greater than man. There’s no doubt there. All I’ve ever seen is a man who thrives in the knowledge than he is better than us in every way. That’s what all his kills have displayed. But the scene at the church last week was different. It was something else. No longer a sole existence.”

“You believe he worked with a partner?”

“No. _No_. This was something else. The Ripper didn’t leave an image of his intelligence for the world to see. He was performing for someone… serenading them. I think –”

“You believe he is in love.”

Will licks his lips, “His version of love. To possess someone so completely, they won’t need to breathe. The surrender of their beating heart.” 

When there is no reply, it takes a moment for him to realise what he’s just said and the way he sounds, w _istful_. He glances over at Hannibal; who looks calm enough, but the room feels a few degrees warmer. “Too weird?”

It takes a minute more before he gets a reply.

“Not at all. How many of us can witness the plight of Persephone and Hades? Their fates entwined with an understanding and honesty that spurred the envy of Zeus.”

Will blinks.

He looks back at Hannibal, who takes a sip of wine and meets his gaze.

“Do you think of me as Persephone? My…” He didn’t what word to use, _acceptance, obsession, fixation_. Each one hits close to a truth that Will doesn’t want to think about, “appreciation of death results from what? Some sort of conditioning?” 

“Not at all. Persephone is said to have controlled both life and death. No victim of circumstance, Will. Hades would burn worlds for her. He would, as you say, surrender his own beating heart for the acceptance and company of Persephone.”

Will looks down at the keys of the harpsichord, not sure what to make of that. He presses down on of them, playing out a bum note.

“Do you play?” He asks instead.

Turns out, Hannibal is happy to perform for him.

Seated together at the instrument, pressed together along their arms and legs. The soft melody drifts through the room. Will likes it, allows himself to close his eyes and just relax… even when he feels a hand touch his knee. The song continues as Hannibal continues to play with one hand. The touch is warm and leaves a little shiver under his skin.

It takes a heartbeat before Will rests his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

Not a bad way to end the evening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again! 
> 
> I've probably re-done this chapter a few times, I wanted to get the pacing right and build it up to this pivotal scene but it was driving me crazy. So this is what I'm happy with at the moment. Hope you guys like it <3
> 
> Warnings - Off-screen mention of a Ripper murder

‘Good food’ was overrated.

That’s what Will thought. He never understood people who had the time and energy to stand in a kitchen prepping, cutting, and cooking so many elements to make something that would be eaten in 5 minutes. It just seemed like a waste.

Not when you could have the same thing in a microwave meal or a frozen box of pizza. Not the best nutritional value, but it did the job and kept Will going. That and the coffee… well, 15 coffees. He needs a super boost of caffeine to get his body moving and mind running.

But thinking about the inevitable caffeine crash has Will feeling the inklings of a headache.

The first time Hannibal offers to make him lunch, Will needed to take a 15-minute walk. He’s not sure why, but a voice in his head whispers;  _feelings of inadequacy, especially since you know you struggle to care for your needs. The feeling of dependency reminds you of your father… And it feels safer to walk away than confront difficult memories_.

The voice sounds suspiciously like Hannibal.

But Hannibal can’t take no for an answer. Just shows up at Will’s door, breakfast in hand.

“ _Sustenance is important_.” Is all he says as he makes his way into the kitchen.

And a confused Will follows him through, clearing up and leaving Hannibal to take care of the rest. Within 15 minutes he’s served a delicious breakfast; scrambled eggs and sausage.

Funny enough, Will feels a lot more energised that day – doesn’t even need that third cup of coffee at 11am.

So the next time Hannibal offers packed lunch, offering to drop it off in the morning before Will heads to the studio, Will finds it easier to say yes.

And say yes again.

And yes.

Till Hannibal makes an hour and a half drive to his place most mornings.

 _Selfish_ is what he calls it.

Hannibal brushes it off with a smile, and a quiet, “I am here to serve, dear Will.”

“I have to say, this is definitely an upgrade.” Will admits as he readjusts in the little camping seat.

He’s settled on a picnic blanket, enjoying a flask of hot soup with some snacks. There’s a small canopy set up in case of rain and a battery-operated heater.

Hannibal is a man who enjoys his simple comforts.  

“We are all creature of habits, forming routines that bring about stability. It would make no sense to change something that already brings us happiness. Even if it there’s room for improvement.”

Will glances over at Hannibal, seated in a matching camping chair, fishing rod in hand. He was finally out of his three-piece suit, but still looking posh in a cashmere sweater, warm trousers and a waterproof jacket.

You can take the man out of the city, but you can’t take the expensive taste away.

“I still think your posh food is scaring away the fish.”

Hannibal smiles, “Ah but the harder the catch, the greater the meal.”

Will laughs, “There’s no point in going hungry over an ego boost. You have to catch something to eat it.”

It had honestly started as a helpless throwaway comment. After so much of Hannibal’s attention and care, Will had offered to at least try to supply the meat for their meals.

Hannibal’s reaction had been instant. The smallest tilt of his head, his fingers shifting ever so slightly, taking in a quick breath. For someone like Hannibal, it might as well have been a full body flinch.

Will didn’t know why it’d struck such a nerve, but he still offered the fishing trip for his own conscious. His father had raised him with _some_ principles.

He’d been looking forward to catching Hannibal out of his element, and almost selfishly hoped to see Hannibal at the lake on a horrendous wet, muddy day, stuck sitting on a rock waiting for the fish to bite.

Instead Hannibal took it in his stride, accompanying Will with a supply of warm food, blankets, and easy companionship. He watched Will tie the bait and fly hooks, replicating it with perfect ease.

“We’ll get something eventually,” Will concedes, “It just means we’re comfortable for the wait.”

“And you are a man of endless patience.”

Will snorts, “Yeah, well we can’t all be saints.”

“I assure you, in some regards I am a man with little patience.”

“Really?” He looks over at Hannibal, “And what crosses the line for you?”

He’s seen Hannibal forgive all kinds of things. Sure – there’d be a quiet reprimand, reproving silence, but no anger. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Hannibal raise his voice.

“Rudeness.”

Will takes that in.

Thinking of what he knows of Hannibal, a man who expects perfection in all things or things in his control. His food, his clothes, his practice, the people he interacts with. To have that disrespected with… anything.

To be rude could be anything Hannibal deems imperfect.

“That’s a broad one.” 

“You think I leave myself open to greater chances of losing patience.”

“No, you give yourself the moral authority of deciding how others are rude. Who knows what their transgressions are; someone mispronounces your name or doesn’t offer to shake your hand, maybe they just walk really slowly in front of you.”

The line moves and Will tightens his grip on the handle. A tug on the fishing rod doesn’t meet any resistance. A false alarm.

He looks back on Hannibal, “Too much?”

Hannibal reaches for his hand, and Will lets him take it.

“I am unaccustomed to sharing truths. I find I have not allowed someone to share my reality in a long time. But do not apologise for seeing me. I would not have it any other way.”

Hannibal doesn’t fear judgement; no doubt or shame over his actions. He is a man in the centre of a lot of social circles, used to the attention, admiration and envy. But how many have seen him with his walls down.

The last time that had happened, it had been personal… it had been _family_.

And Will knows the feeling.

“Who cares what the world thinks.” Will tightens the grip, comforted at the warmth. “Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.”

The reassurance lights up Hannibal’s eyes.

Will hated weekends.

He’d keep himself busy during the week with meetings, or spend hours in his studio, anything to keep his mind distracted. And once his coffee consumption couldn’t keep away the headaches, he’d stumble back home sore and exhausted. Dinner was uneventful, or skipped altogether, and Will would end up on the sofa surrounded by wet noses and a mountain of fur. The dogs were the one thing he’d look forward to; the pack surrounding him with a cocoon of warmth.

The nightmares would then strike in waves. 

Will would jerk awake; heart pounding and sweat soaked. The images fade until he’s left with goose bumps. The dogs having moved to their own spots across the floor. He’d take off his shirt to wipe away the sweat, and curled up on his side. Hoping for a few hours of peace.

Then it’s just a matter of eat, rinse, and repeat for every weekend after that.

No late-night conversations, no intimacy… no one there to share his time with.

 

 

Now, Will gets past his front door and catches the whiff of smoking meat and earthy spices, not before he’s bombarded with wagging tails and excited barks.

Hannibal is not far behind. Coming to stand a few feet away, patiently waiting for his welcome. Will lets Hannibal wrap him in a warm embrace, a quick press of lips against his.

He’ll follow Hannibal to the kitchen. Being put to work on chopping vegetables and washing items. His kitchen has always been a small space, and one that he’d never spent much time in, but as Will moves between the counters, he feels Hannibal brush against him, a press of his hand, the warmth of his shoulder, or a pleased glance across the room.

They sit at the table and enjoy the food. Hannibal’s happy to lead the conversation, more than pleased with Will’s small interjections. On the days that Will doesn’t want to talk, Hannibal is happy to share the silence with him, opting to hold his hand like love-struck teenagers.

It’s definitely an upgrade to the weekends he’s starting to enjoy.

After dinner, they settle down in the living room, having herded the dogs in the den for bed. The fire is lit, warming the room considerably. Hannibal is in the armchair with his tablet, idly catching up on the news for the day while Will has his sketchbook in hand. His laptop is out on the floor, open on a few colour references.

Barney has talked him into holding another exhibition, in a few months, hoping to capitalise on the interest of Baltimore’s elite circles.

Not that Will knows what his show will be about.

 _It’ll come to you_ is Hannibal’s helpful advice.

“I want,” Will tosses his sketchbook aside and lays out flat on the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. “I want it to be something honest.”

Will hears Hannibal put away his tablet. And slowly get up from his seat. Hannibal walks over and looks down at him for a minute, before lifting Will’s head so he can sit down and have it rest on his lap.

The feeling of fingers in his hair has Will pause. 

“This.” He says after adjusting to the feeling.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow in response.

“I want to be honest about this. How everyone can feel this.”

“You wish to explore the possibility of love?” Hannibal questions as his fingers continues to soothe Will’s scalp. Always so careful. “Artists have explored the whimsical and violent nature of love. It is a truth that has spurred damnations and devotions since the start of time. Antonio Canova was the one who captured Psyche’s revival in his sculpture. A personal favourite of mine is Le Printemps by Pierre-Auguste Cot; an enchanting depiction of young love.”

Will wets his lips.

“I want to show the world the capacity for love… even the Ripper’s version of it.”

The silence settles in the air.

A minute passes.

Then another.

Will looks up at Hannibal – his stillness, his deep stare, his sharp cheekbones. The ever careful fingers that haven’t stopped their caress.

“I think everyone deserves to have this,” Will gestures between them. “I’m not a romantic guy. Heck, I don’t think I ever expected anything beyond my pack. I saw my future as just me, my dogs, and protecting myself from the judgement of the world. That’s all I thought that was waiting for me, Hannibal. And I’m beginning to appreciate this. _You_.

“And I think if the Ripper can feel this, even an ounce, then maybe there’s hope for all of us. The outcasts and the monsters.”

Hannibal’s hand tightens their grip, even as his face is motionless.

It’s only after his thought catch up with him that Will realises what he’s said. What he’s confessed.

 _Like a sinner at Church_.

He takes a deep breath, gathering his courage, _to take it back, not spoil this, not have this taken away_ -

Hannibal lowers his head, eyes warm and alight. He brushes their foreheads together.

“Dear Will,” he whispers, so quietly that it won’t shatter the moment, “You have always remained beyond my expectation and comprehension. I fear, I am a mere witness to your glory.”  

Will feels the fingers run down his throat as Hannibal adds, “I think if you were to share what you feel here to the world, I would be honoured.”

“Oh Christ, that’s a bad one.”

Will looks over at Barney and notices the news channel sharing images from the latest Ripper scene. The news host is sharing statements from the FBI and police. Will can’t help but look over the paralysed body of the victim, his mind filling in the gaps as from the pictures on Tattlecrime.

It seems the Ripper has moved past his sounds of three.

Each scene is more brutal than before… but also so sincere. Will’s not sure Baltimore can sustain a love struck serial killer.

Will steps back from his canvas and dips his brush into the crimson-coloured paint. He shakes the excess and slides the brush against the picture, adding a hint of maroon to the shadows of Hades flame.

The painting is a depiction of Hades imbued in flames, seated on his throne of death; keeper of souls. Powerful. Assured. The rightful king of the underworld.

The seat next to Hades is formed of strong oak, the sturdy weight of an age-old tree. The tree associated with life; bathed in light. The equal of Hades in all ways.

As there is no death without life… and through death a new life is forged. Will had spent nearly two months working on the painting, obsessively tweaking the palette, reworking the details of the throne, the shadows cast over Hades face and skeletal hands. It was nearly perfect.

Except Persephone.

That was proving to be difficult. Will just wasn’t sure how to draw her. Something just didn’t feel right in her design. He wasn’t able to visualise her. It was outside his understanding.

To be fair, the image of Hades on his throne and the queen’s vacant throne was enough for Barney, who’s already pushing for Will to call it a day and sign his name at the bottom.

Will steps back, tossing his brush aside and scratching the back of his neck. It’ll have to do for now. Might as well come back to it later.

A buzzer echoes through the studio, and Barney shares a look of confusion with him. They’re not expecting any deliveries.

“Let me get it.” Barney’s already picking up his phone and scrambling for the intercom system. He presses the camera button to reveal a man in a paisley suit.

“For God’s sake.” Will grumbles, but can’t help the smile on his face.

“Ah, Dr. Lecter?” Barney asks as he hits the speaker button, “What a surprise. What are you doing here? Is there anything we can help you with?”

“Just bring him up,” Will says, and at the Barney’s confused expression, he adds, “Dr. Lecter was hoping for a commission on a sculpture, something to compliment the other one. It’s fine.”

“You’ve never mentioned that? Are you sure you even have time with the exhibition? You’re barely on track to finish your canvas pieces, let alone the –”

“It’s really not a big deal, Barney. I’ve got it under control. Besides, we both know no one really gives a shit about the art. Everyone wants to just tick off another box of their art collection bingo sheet.”

“Either way, you still get paid. Just remember to tell me these things, Will. I need to make sure you don’t get underpaid for your man hours.”

“Do you remember how much Dr. Lecter paid at the auction? I really don’t think he’s going to skimp out.”

Barney shrugs, “Make sure he drops me at email so we can coordinate the schedule properly and agree on pricing.” Barney shrugs as he heads for the door, “And we need to talk about finalising stuff for the show. We need to settle a name first, I think.”

Barney trails off as he heads out the door. 

Once he’s left alone, Will clears up some of his mess. Clearing up brushes, closing the bottles of his paints. A quick trip to the washroom has him getting paint off his hands, working it out from underneath his fingernails.

The studio doors groan as they’re pushed open, and Will ducks out to see Hannibal coming in with a box of chocolates.

Will raises an eyebrow at the sight, “What’s the special occasion?”

“I felt it would be appropriate to share my admiration of seeing an artist amid their creation… Once I knew you would allow me to see you work.”

“Flatterer. Give me that,” Will reaches for the box and finds himself surrounded by Hannibal instead; enveloped in his overwhelming presence.

“I was curious about how you were spending the evening and –”

“Couldn’t call?”

“I did not wish to; I had hoped to for an invitation for the evening. I am happy to make dinner.”

“That’s presumptuous.”

“I am a man who believes in optimism.”

Will rolls his eyes. More like the opposite. Hannibal was a man who believed in careful planning. It was almost obsessive, the lengths to which he prepared things to go his way. But who was Will to judge personal habits? He had a few quirks that Hannibal put up with.

“Come here.” Will says instead, placing the box of chocolates on his work counter. He takes Hannibal’s hand and leads him to back of his studio, near the sculpture materials, to start the tour.

Hannibal watches with sharp eyes, taking in the place, not saying a word as Will roughly stumbles over explanations of his process and the meanings behind some of his work.

Eventually, as he knew it would, Hannibal stops in front of the Hades canvas.

“And what is this?”

Will doesn’t have an answer. Not one that’ll do it justice. Instead, he looks over the colours one more time, idly making sure they’ve blended in properly.

Hannibal shifts the grip of their hands, so he’s holding it more firmly. His thumb stroking circles the back of Will’s hand.

“It’s magnificent.”

This time Will knows to look over to see Hannibal watching him. He still isn’t any better at hiding his embarrassment.

“It’s not even finished yet.” He points out.

“I noticed. But Persephone was a soul that alluded many.”

“I’m trying. I just don’t understand who it is.”

“Perhaps you should ask the Ripper himself,” Hannibal quirks his lips, “He has been rather… visible of late.”

Wouldn’t that be a conversation.

Will shrugs, “I mean… I just can’t see it – after all this time, why would they stay silent?”

“You are referring to the Ripper’s paramour?”

“I mean, you’re right. The Ripper is familiar, I can see enough of him and what he’s shared. I can almost grasp his…” He spreads out his fingers as an explanation. The embodiment of the Ripper. His essence. “But the person receiving the serenades - radio silence. Do they know what’s happening? Are they responding and we don’t even know?”

“The most difficult truths are the ones we are knee deep in.”

“Can we leave the psychoanalysing for one day?” Will huffs. then changes the subject, “Barney thinks I should call it a day.”

“What is holding you back?” Hannibal watches, “And without the psychoanalysis, I see that this is important to you.”

“It just seems… sad.”

Hannibal dips his head in acknowledgement, “To leave a work such as this so incomplete.”

“No. It just seems like a waste to leave him alone,” Will bites his lip for a moment. His mind drifts and the pendulum _swings_. “To spend an eternity, waiting for understanding and true companionship. To not have that immortalised. That’s a solemn existence.”

“You are far more familiar with Hades,” Hannibal quirks his lips, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling, “These years of familiarity allow you to see a clearer truth of who Hades is. The rest will come and Persephone will be a sight to behold.”

Hannibal moves, coming to stand behind him, hands brushing his shoulder. His breath brushes Will’s collar, the warmth runs up his neck and settles at his ears.

“To have all that rightful power over nature itself. To be death himself, the ultimate ruler over man,” Hannibal’s deep voice is self-assured. “Yet, to find one to share that companionship with. What an existence would it be for a God like Hades, to be granted understanding.”

Will blinks.

He stares at the empty throne, and sees himself seated there, rings of flowers at his feet.

He huffs and shakes his head. The image fading away.

Ridiculous.

Hannibal draws an arm around him, “I wish to inform you I have changed my mind.”

He glances back, “Oh.”

“I had hoped to wait for you permission for how this evening. But I find myself in a selfish position of wanting to ask for your keys, regardless.”

“And what makes you think I’m just handing them over?”

“Because I promise to make it a pleasurable evening for you,” And Hannibal’s eyes darken in a way Will now anticipates, “And while I prepare for the evening, you will close up and ensure the safety of your masterpieces.”

Will coughs, still not able to handle Hannibal’s straightforwardness. Which is probably why he fishes out his keys from his pocket and hands them over.

And his heart does _not_ race at the sight of Hannibal’s smile. 


End file.
